


Mistle Toe

by Soleil_Cassiopeia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:06:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soleil_Cassiopeia/pseuds/Soleil_Cassiopeia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has settled down into a new life and has started a family of his own. After Sebastian Moran has been captured, Sherlock decides to make a move of his own. Christmas is being celebrated at 221B and a unexpected visitor arrives. Will John be able to reunite with Sherlock again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistle Toe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Earlgray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earlgray/gifts).



> This is for slytherin-cunning, my Secret Santa for this year's Johnlock Secret Santa. It was a pleasure writing this for you and I hope you enjoy reading it and that it is to your liking. :)

Sherlock was dead. There wasn’t any doubt about that. He had seen them bury the casket. He had helped dig the hole, pour the dirt, and make sure that even in death Sherlock Holmes was remembered, not as a fraud, but rather a great man. Greg had given a speech that day. It was better than anything John would say if he could while he stood stoic, chin up, hand clenched and he was damned if he cried in front of everybody. When the service was over, he lingered around the grave with Mrs. Hudson, the sun warming his back, giving him mild comfort. She was talking on and on about his misadventures in the kitchen and the body parts hidden in the most used places, about his playing in ungodly hours of the morning, and the slow destruction of 221B caused by Sherlock’s boredom. He didn’t want to hear this. He wanted to be alone. Yet, he couldn’t push her away like the others. She had been there. She had always been there.  
At the grave, he placed his hand on the cold stone. It was inanimate, solid, emphasizing the lack of life and bringing him back to the memory of Sherlock’s absent pulse the day he fell and the fading warmth radiating off his skin. Mrs. Hudson had left for the car and had given him some time alone. And he cried. He begged him, pleaded to him to be alive, if not for other’s sake, then for his. He needed him back.  
Neither Mrs. Hudson nor John spoke a word about it on the ride back to 221B. The cabbie didn’t pick up on their wishes to have some peace and quiet as he made rude jokes and his barking laughter boomed in the silence. His sharp turns made John feel sick and the sudden braking of the automobile sent pain up his shoulder as it knocked against the seat. He glanced at Mrs. Hudson and she wasn’t faring any better. The cabbie then started on Sherlock.  
“Sherlock, a genius? Doesn’t he know humans can’t fly? I bet he was drunk too. I had a friend like that you know. Short, unemployed, fat with a hag of a wife. What a sight she was. One day after a fight with his wife, he got drunk and decided to have a fag on the roof. Well the sun was going down and these birds, they fly and yea, so he thought he wanted to fly. HA!! Poor bloke only cracked his head open. Some flyer he was.” He then turned around to look at me, probably expecting a laugh. His grin slowly took a look of confusion.  
“Hey, wait. Aren’t you that blogger?” He didn’t even have the decency to look apologetic. The car had stopped in front of 221B and Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him on the sidewalk. She was biting her lip. He should hit this guy for what he was doing to her. And he did just that.  
Mrs. Hudson gave him a small smile as they entered the flat, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She held her hand against his back and they left their separate ways. John entered his room and slept for what felt forever.  
John took up being a medical practitioner again. He listened to Sherlock for once. Caring about him did not help save him. Maybe it only encouraged him. He stopped going to his therapist and deleted his blog. He was a doctor now. Not an amateur journalist. He worked for hours on end and that kept him sane. His schedule of work kept him from seeing the others as well and only saw Mrs. Hudson when he got home. She would wait up for him every day. He felt bad when he found out, especially when he would work long hours into the early hours of the morning on a rainy day. Storms didn’t help a bad hip.  
That night he slept uneasily. The storm made the flat feel cold and though the heater was on he still felt a chill to the bone. He was dozing off when he heard his name. It was a familiar voice. One he would know anywhere.  
Sherlock? Is that you? You would call me, on my phone. I’d answer and you’d tell me you wanted to meet me. I went along as you knew I would and I climbed up to the rood of St. Bart’s. The stairs seemed never ending, pulling me down as I moved a leg up and multiplying as I elevated off the floor. I didn’t mind though, my limp was gone, my shoulder had no scar, and it felt easy, just like breathing. I reached that door, the black one with the rusty hinges and opened it to blinding light. I looked away; it kept me from looking at you. My hand shielded my eyes and all I could see was your shoes, polished and clean as always. It was surprising how you kept them so clean. I would spend hours scraping mud and rocks off my shoes along with god knows what else I got into when running around in London, but you. You wouldn’t have to do any of that save for the occasional wipe. You were amazing, did you know that?  
You would say my name and I’d wait. I knew what was coming. I tried not to touch your hand as it reached for mine. I tried so desperately. Sherlock, I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. And you would fall, just as you did that day except this time, I killed you. I made you fall. I didn’t grab your hand in time and you fell. Pathetic.  
John woke with a start. He hadn’t had that dream in what seemed like years. His hand flew to his throat which felt raw, like he had been screaming in his sleep. He strained to hear movement, to see if he had woken Mrs. Hudson up, but it seemed he hadn’t. His breath came in short, shallow gasps and his chest heaved with the rapid movement, his heartbeat like a war drum. He couldn’t rest. He got up out of bed, a plan already formulating in his head.  
If anything, Sherlock and the war taught him to be prepared for anything. Gun tucked away in a drawer and bullets in another. It was loaded and all he needed to do was take the safety off and bang. Deadman. Adrenaline rushed through his body, heightening his senses. He took off the safety and held the muzzle to his head.  
He was ready. He was going to kill the man who killed Sherlock.  
\----  
Three years had passed and though he had access to files on Greg’s part, he didn’t have consent to what John was going to do, but to each their own was what he had said. John had no luck with his search. He wasn’t allowed access to the files on the computer. Trying to investigate Moriarty’s disappearance proved futile, especially when he didn’t have Sherlock to unlock all the files for him. John was kept in the dark for so much, if he knew Sherlock would die that day, he wouldn’t have left him. He would have stayed besides him until he went. It was what Sherlock wanted. Death. It wasn’t easy for John to part from him. He had moved on.  
John arrived at his driveway after his late shift and the tell-tale light on the window from Mary’s window told him of his expected arrival. She opened the door for him and smiled at him. After dinner, he watched the telly with her as was their routine and had small talk over their day. He washed the dishes and she went up the stairs to their bedroom. He went up the stairs to his son’s bedroom. He opened his door and there he was. Safe and sound.  
“Goodnight, Hamish.” He closed his son’s door. He then walked across the hall and entered his own room. His wife was reading a book. She looked up as he entered and turned his way.  
“Hamish will enter secondary soon, you know?” she said, a small smile on her lips. Her reading glasses were perched precariously on the bridge of her nose. They were always a bit too large for her face and tended to slip down, something John found endearing about her.  
“Already? I could have sworn he was still a baby. Remember when I left for work one day and he had walked out with me and into the car? Hadn’t noticed he was there until I was backing the car out.” They both laughed at that. He changed out of his work clothes and into a cotton t-shirt and flannel pants. Sherlock would always make fun of his red pants. He then turned his lamp off, pulled up the covers, and counted sheep.  
There was a ringing in his sleep, sharp and monotone. He sat up quickly in bed and reached for his gun. It wasn’t there anymore. He had left it in 221B. There were no more crime circles to catch, no more murderers to catch, or cases to solve. He turned to his bedside table. It was the phone. John glanced at Mary to see if she woke. She hadn’t. He walked out into the hallway and closed the door silently and pressed the talk button.  
“Hello?” There was silence on the other end and he was about to hang up when he heard it. Mycroft Holmes.  
“Merry Christmas, John.” He said it like the time of day. Oh right. It was Christmas. He noticed, suddenly seeing the bright glow from the Christmas lights strung around building across the street out his window. How had he forgotten? He didn’t get a gift for Mrs. Hudson. Nor for Mary or Hamish, but Mary had done shopping a week ago and he could look for something for Mary later. Maybe he could get Mary and Mrs. Hudson something after his shift tomorrow at the hospital. Mrs. Hudson loved Hamish and they all went for a visit often. Hamish quickly took a liking to her and would beg John to go visit Aunty Martha. John had made it clear to Hamish that Mrs. Hudson was in no way related to him, but she shushed him on the spot and said to let it be.  
“He’s just a boy, John. Titles are no matter to me.”  
John snapped out of his reverie.  
“Merry Christmas. I’m sorry but why are you calling?” He was confused. No contact after all this time. Why now? After three years, had something happened? Did they find something about Moriarty? Perhaps they had caught him. But he couldn’t get his hopes up. So he waited, not so patiently over the reason for the call.  
“No particular reason.” He said. Of course not.  
“Oh and John.”  
“Hmm?”  
“Welcome back.” Click. The phone’s dead beep echoed in the hallway, seemingly continuous and reaching the recesses of his room. He set it back down and went to sleep.  
John woke the next morning and reached for the newspaper on the breakfast table. It was a Saturday and he didn’t have a shift today. He looked at the cover and saw that a man had been caught for the death of a banker last night. The article continued on page six and as he opened the newspaper to that page, something fell out. It was a note. Simple, on white cardstock and black ink. It said Sebastian Moran. It was a thick card, expensive looking. It couldn’t be sent by anyone but by the surviving Holmes. Perhaps that was the reason for Mycroft’s call? But why would he contact John-oh. Remembering the case over the banker he had written about, he remembered how the banker was shot. So this was the killer? Sherlock could have caught him sooner and would have mocked at the police force’s lack of observance to detail as he did. He smiled at that a bit. Christmas. He could do that. 

\---

Sherlock was standing across from the window by his chair playing his violin. He didn’t have to look at the door as it opened to know who it was. That pace of footsteps, their weight behind them, gave away the owner’s height and identity of the owner themselves. No one ever went in or out. Because he had agreed to that policy, which was the only way he would see John again, he was allowed to remain hidden until the time came to reveal the truth.  
Sherlock was dressed in a well-tailored suit, white dress shirt, and ever polished shoes. He hadn’t given Mycroft the coordinates yet. He shouldn’t be surprised he came so soon.  
“You’re alive then?” Mycroft’s voice echoed in the empty common room.  
“Obviously.” He said with a movement of his head as he played Bach’s Chaconne, his back to the door. The only good thing about having the government for a brother was his provision of a sound-proof room. He saw the tension in Mycroft’s shoulders ease in his reflection against the window at his response. The family feud had lasted for so long, why stop now?  
“And what about-”Mycroft started as he raised his voice, trying to be heard over Sherlock’s playing.  
“John?” It was so like his brother to ask over John than how he did it. Mycroft never appreciated when he showed off. “I don’t care.” His fingers moved with practiced ease over the finger board. His vibrato rang in the room, the acoustics perfect no doubt in part of his brother’s wish to remain as comfortable during his stay in a government protected facility.  
Sherlock itched to get out of the room. He was like a caged cat, agitated and ready to escape given the opportunity. His chance would come soon.  
“Don’t care about what, Sherlock? Don’t care about his limp? That he’s married? You care about him; it’s obvious, to me and to everyone. You even sent him that note in last week’s paper! He’s not going on wild goose chases with you in London anymore, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock scoffed at that. Chasing a wild goose? How preposterous. Chasing a legendary hound was more sensible than that.  
Mycroft gave him the look. He picked up his umbrella from its position against the wall by the door.  
“He has a son and a wife, a family. He’s moved on, Sherlock and so should you.”  
He was halfway out the door when he stopped a moment; his head turned the bare minimum to say “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”, and closed the door with a click.  
Sherlock’s playing ceased and he placed his violin and bow on the chair as he brought his hands up to his chest, mimicking a prayer stance. So, John had moved on. He didn’t need Sherlock anymore. It couldn’t hurt to say a last goodbye, could it? 

\---

Getting his address was easy enough. He saw that he had moved out of Baker Street. He was expected to, especially with a family, 221 B was too small and frankly, Sherlock was glad that the space he had shared with John had not been changed to suit a family’s needs. Now, spying on the other hand was another matter entirely. Sherlock preferred to call it gathering data and glared at Mycroft into the camera whenever he said that into the earpiece’s microphone. He was disguised as a business man making his way to his car parked in a suburb hidden away from the city. It wasn’t a long drive from Baker Street and while it would be impossible to affordwithout a joint-income, this was John’s new home. School was about a ten minute walk away and a park about the same distance in the opposite direction. It was a proper environment in which to raise a child. Nothing like Baker Street at all, no crime scenes, no break ins, robberies, experiments, just peace and quiet. It was safe. Sherlock clicked his tongue in disgust. How hateful.  
He was making his way to his car at the precise moment when he knew John would drive Hamish to school before making his way to work. He could hear the noise behind their door and then it opened. Sherlock gasped as John came into his line of view. He was in a rush. His hair was haphazardly put together but he still managed to look presentable. He was talking quickly to someone behind him, his son. His son looked annoyed at being rushed, but carried himself with the air of a noble in his uniform. It was expensive and tailor-fit. His son was nothing at all like John. He had dark brown curls and sapphire blue eyes. Must be the mother’s genes. She appeared behind Hamish and wished them goodbye.  
John chose at that second to look up as he unlocked his car and he smiled politely at Sherlock. He didn’t know it was him. Sherlock waved back and cursed John’s lack of observance. Why couldn’t he just see?  
Sherlock entered his car. Mycroft didn’t say a word during the drive home. It wasn’t as if Sherlock would be able to hear him. He had ripped the earpiece out of his ear. He had all the data he needed. Mycroft was right. 

\---

Sherlock returned to his room in central London as per Mycroft’s request. As soon as he entered, Mycroft entered with him.  
“What do you want!?” he spat, venom in his voice. He was pacing the room and suddenly clenched his fists and dug them into his eyes. He let out a short huff.  
Mycroft was watching him, calm as ever. It was annoying. He then moved away from his position in front of the room and walked in front of Sherlock. He reached inside his pocket and handed the envelope to Sherlock. He eyed it with suspicion, but took it. Mycroft then turned and walked towards the door.  
“Don’t be late” he said as he left.  
Sherlock ripped open the envelope. His eyes quickly scanned the letter’s contents. It wasn’t a letter, rather an invitation. It was an invitation to a Christmas party on Baker Street. 

\---

The windows lit up in the dark street and the cheer coming from inside could be heard. They were making merry without him. The bell rang.  
“I’ll get it!” said John as he set down his drink on the counter. The party was going great, couldn’t be better. Molly couldn’t make it, she had gone to her dad’s for Christmas. Couldn’t be helped. Family was all anyone had in the end. While John, preferred not to think of his own family, he was glad someone could enjoy time with theirs. It wasn’t the same without him but it was to be expected. Nothing as smooth as this party could be possible with him and John chuckled at the memory.  
John swung the door open to discover a tall figure that looked not a day past thirty. Elegant as ever.  
“Oh this is precious. No really. Stop playing and take that off. Might as well come in as you invited yourself anyways.” He said with a laugh and clapped the man on the shoulder as he entered. The guest’s eyes roamed about the room until they settles on John with a look of confusion.  
“I didn’t know I was expected.” His baritone voice rumbled deep within his chest.  
John’s face turned to surprise and confusion and his eyes glanced down in pain of the memory. He sounded so like him.  
“Enough. There’s a bathroom down the hall to the right.” He said as he took his coat and scarf. His guest pocketed his gloves.  
His guest didn’t move nor did he break eye contact. Those eyes seem to call to him. As if they were saying John. Look at me. It’s me.  
John’s heart stopped. It was. It really fucking was. All these years. His rage blinded him and he moved forward and raised his arm with a cry. He was blind and deaf to all reason.  
“YOU BLOODY GIT!!” and punched Sherlock’s face. Everyone had come to the door to welcome the guest and what a guest it was. John heard Greg’s surprise.  
“John!!” he yelled as he made a step forward but was lost as to where to help. Echoes of Sherlock’s name were heard.  
Sherlock staggered back at the blow, bent forward against the door, and held a hand against his cheek. He looked up at Greg with a smile but quickly shifted his eyes to John’s impending attack. He wasn’t fighting back. This made John angrier. He even had the nerve to smile. John pulled him off the door and tackled him to the ground. He held his neck down and looking down at him, he made a move to hit him again, his arm was pulled back to strike but he found he couldn’t. Sherlock had grabbed his arm anyways and he went limp. His chest heaved and his breath came short and fast against Sherlock’s cheek, eyes unseeing, looking down at the carpet. As his adrenaline rush wore off and his pupils went back to normal, he calmed down at the touch of cool skin against his cheek. He could feel the pulse beneath his fingers. He was alive. John found that he really couldn’t do it again. Once was enough and he pulled the man into his arms. Something was shaking him.  
He felt Sherlock tense at the gesture and he slowly put his arms on his shoulders. John was slowly pounding his fist into Sherlock’s side, emphasizing each blow with a sob.  
“I thought you were dead.”  
At this, Sherlock chuckled and he felt it as he moved with him in his arms.  
“I was. At least, according to Sebastian Moran, I was. Three years, John. I’m alive again.” He said, smiling down at John.  
John’s eyes widened and he pulled back to look him in the face.  
“That note. It was you!” He exclaimed. Sherlock said nothing to this. Irritating bastard.  
“Now get up, John. It’s not decent.” He said instead.  
As if suddenly remembering where he was, John straightened up and pulled back from Sherlock with a cough and blushing cheeks. He rubbed his eyes and offered Sherlock a hand up and a strained smile. They could talk about this later.  
“Since when do you know about decency?” teased John lightly. His cheek was now pink and starting to swell. It didn’t quite reach his eyes  
“Fair play.” Responded Sherlock with a smile. This wasn’t going to be easy.  
“Greg, get him some ice, would you?” Greg was staring, jaw slack, and snapped to attention with a jump. He returned shortly and handed the makeshift ice pack to his cheek. He made a noise of appreciation as he placed it over his cheek.  
“Sherlock?” asked Mary. At this, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed the smallest of fractions. He didn’t like this Mary.  
“Yes?” he responded.  
“The Sherlock?” she asked. Sherlock probably thought she was dull for repeating herself. He would most likely reprimand him on his choice of a partner and how thought John would have picked someone better.  
“Obviously.” He said with a slight huff of annoyance.  
“Well then.” Said Greg as he rubbed his hands together nervously, trying to break the tension in the room. “Seeing as we have a legendary guest, why don’t we toast his journey from the dead? To Sherlock!” Everyone drank to that. Dinner went pleasantly and they had plum pudding for dessert as tradition. While everyone was trading gifts, John chose to take the opportunity to talk.  
“Sherlock, can we talk?” he asked timidly.  
“Very well, what about?” he asked. As if it wasn’t obvious.  
“How did you get here?” he asked. It seemed reasonable to ask, he hadn’t sent him an invitation.  
“Mycroft. Next question.” The answer was so like Sherlock.  
“Why are you here? Why after three years?” he started. At this question, Sherlock puffed up, no doubt proud of what he was about to explain.  
“Sebastian Moran was captured. He was Moriarty’s crime partner. Moriarty threatened to kill Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly, you.” Sherlock’s eyes raised up to meet John’s. “The only way for you to live was if I jumped. I jumped and lived. I beat the greatest criminal mind anyone had ever known and no one will know that I did it. He died John, by his own hand.” Sherlock’s eyes were pleading him to understand.  
John swallowed hard. This was why. Because of Moriarty. Moriarty this, Moriarty that. It was always about him in the end.  
“So that’s why you couldn’t meet me? I would die if you did? Sherlock why didn’t you tell me? I would have been there with you!! I wouldn’t have said….I wouldn’t have told you that you were a machine. If I knew those would be my last words…” His took a shaky breath. He was angry again. Wasn’t he any help to Sherlock? Didn’t he mean anything to him?  
“No, John, listen. It’s not like that. You were in danger and I panicked. I couldn’t tell you anything. Listen to me!” He said, pulling at John’s jumper.  
“Let go. I just. I need some air.” And with that John went out the door. Sherlock let go and slumped against the couch. Mrs. Hudson who had seen what had happened as she was about to offer them tea, chose to then approach Sherlock.  
“Sherlock. He understands. He just needs time. Now here, be a dear and have some of this tea.” She said as she placed a cup in his hands as Sherlock looked back with something akin to hurt across his face as his face was in John’s line of vision was all John saw before he left out the door.  
He went for a jog around the block and returned back to the flat. When he entered, Sherlock was playing Christmas carols on the violin for everyone. They had somehow managed to get a pair of antlers on his head and Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t stop gushing over them. John chuckled, they were quite adorable. No, he couldn’t think like that anymore. Sherlock didn’t, couldn’t feel that way. For anyone. Except perhaps for Irene, but she died.  
John crossed the room and Sherlock put his violin down. Where had he gotten it from anyways? John shook his head at the sudden appearance of the instrument and pulled him aside into the other room.  
“Nice antlers.” He said as he walked into the kitchen to get himself a drink and Sherlock followed him.  
“Thanks.” He grumbled. It was obvious Greg and Mrs. Hudson had teamed up to get those on him with Greg had taken pictures with his mobile, most likely to blackmail him with when he was stubborn over getting out of the flat for a case. John reached up and probed one before it bounced back into place. He was about to do it again before Sherlock suddenly grabbed his wrist. His smile fell. Did he do something wrong? Of course he did. He was an idiot. He probably came on to Sherlock just them. He was so pathetic. He lowered his head in shame.  
“John, stop. You’ve moved on and so should I. We need to go our separate ways. Mycroft even told me of your family. It was incredibly stupid of me to come out here to see you. I should have listened to him. I’m sorry I bothered you and ruined your Christmas.” His brows were knitted together and his face twisted with emotion as if in physical pain but it was gone as soon as it came. He raised his hands palms out in front of him and gently pushed John away as in a sign of surrender as if saying I give you up John and his face remained as impassive as ever.  
“Goodbye, John.” He said but was stopped by John. His back remained to him but he was listening.  
“Listened to what, Mycroft? Since when have you ever done that? The Sherlock Holmes I know would never dare to think something like that. And on what sources did he think I had moved on? My family? No.” The guests had all moved to the dining room to give them more privacy but their voices carried and were increasing in volume. With a glance to them and a smile in apology he realized their need for privacy.  
“John, for him it was evidence to go on and frankly, it has persuaded me as well.” He said turning around and gesticulating around the Christmas scene in front of him. Sherlock had seen them too.  
“C’mon Sherlock. There’s more to this than you think.” He said leading him into the hallway away from the public eye with a small gesture of his head.  
Sherlock’s interest piqued at the mention of possible information he had been denied from for three years and raised a brow at the doctor. Once settled, John saw Sherlock’s crossed arms and expectant stance and rolled his eyes. He never was patient, was he?  
“Look. Mum and dad didn’t approve of Harry and Clara being together when they were younger in high school. Clara’s parents didn’t mind and actually they were the ones to come up with the idea themselves. Her parents had eloped out of high school and knew what they were going through. They helped us fake the wedding, change Clara’s name to Mary, and Hamish is actually adopted.” said John.  
Yes he could see that now. The turn up in the genes didn’t match. Realizations slowly dawned on him. “It was the perfect fake out. We’re married in name only. “he continued, looking at Sherlock like an exasperated teacher as he explained, not taking a pause for breath if just to get this point through to him.  
So Harry is actually with Clara and you’re not attached? John sighed at this. How many ways would he have to explain it? Sherlock always had to have exact information.  
“Precisely.” He answered.  
“What about Hamish, John you can’t be with me. You have a family. Hamish sees you as his dad and Clara as his mum. You can’t do this to him at such a young age he won’t understand-“  
“I understand dad. “, said Hamish.  
At this John was the one to look surprised. He bet Sherlock saw that he was coming. Why didn’t he say anything?  
Sherlock spun around and smiled. Smart boy, Hamish.  
“He knows?” he said looking at John incredulously and swallowing with some difficulty.  
“Yes, he knows.” That’s probably also why he’s grown so close to Mrs. Hudson, John thought to himself. She’s the only person outside of family who isn’t wrapped up in all of this. “We told him that his mum and I weren’t actually together. He knows about Harry and has met her. She’s sobered up you know, Clara was bloody determined in getting her off the bottle before she met Hamish. We also told him that if the time came where I met someone else, then he would have the choice to go with whichever “parent” he wanted to and he’s made his choice quite clear. It’s about time we hear yours, Sherlock.” He said, raising his eyebrows expectantly.  
“So that means…” John had left him speechless. Well that didn’t matter. What they were about to do didn’t require words.  
“That means,” he said two fingers trailing up his shirt and latched onto his collar as he came in close, his other hand pressed on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s pupils had dilated and felt his pulse under his collar.  
“Merry Christmas, Sherlock” he said and looked up with a smirk. Sherlock looked up with him. Mistle toe.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's it folks!! Thanks for reading and sorry if it was rushed, choppy, or confusing at parts. Just give me a heads up if something doesn't make sense. And just to clear this up, a fag means a cigarette in England. In case you're wondering what song Sherlock was playing on the violin, here is a link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X7y534_WHXE


End file.
